Out of Time
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: In which a thirteen year old Sam finds himself in a strange bunker with a fever of what feels like a million degrees and a stranger claiming to be his brother. Set during the Trials.
1. Chapter 1

**Out of Time**

 **Summary: _In which a thirteen year old Sam finds himself in a strange bunker with a fever of what feels like a million degrees and a stranger claiming to be his brother. Set during the Trials._**

 **Chapter One**

Something happens.

Something bright and sudden that leaves Sam reeling, blinded and totally disorientated and definitely not in a motel room arguing with Dean over who gets the shower after Dad like he remembers. He can tell even before he blinks away the splashes of white light staining his vision. The air here is different, strangely flat and recycled, and everything around him is so still and silent that he must be alone.

Something burns in his hand and he releases it automatically, gasping as he pulls his arm against his chest protectively. He hears something small clatter to the floor at his feet and tries to squint at it but the room is dim and he's still half-blinded by star-bursts of white nothingness. He shakes his head to try to clear it but this turns out to be a bad idea. His balance is off and moving makes the whole room duck and weave around him in a confusing blur of dark shadows and imprinted light. He doesn't realise he's staggering until he trips over something that tangles around his ankles and sends him crashing backwards into a shelving unit.

The shelf beneath him tips forward and a wave of items tumble to the floor. Sam lands beside the shards of a broken purple jar, the viscous liquid it once contained soaking slowly into the pages of a dislodged book and creeping towards him. He shuffles away from it instinctively, scooting back on shaky arms that seem unwilling to hold his weight. There's something wrong with him. His thoughts are slow, muddled, and he feels strangely disconnected from his body. Like he's been drugged. Maybe he has been. Or maybe it's a side effect of... whatever happened.

The room swirls dizzyingly around him as his vision slowly clears, all grey concrete and shelving units as far as Sam can see, shelves holding everything from books and boxes, ancient chalices and swords, to different coloured crystals and old scrolls tied with faded ribbons. He can't see a door from where he's sitting and he can't seem to catch his breath properly, like his lungs are full of junk. Curiously, he tries to draw a deep breath and has to double up to smother the resulting coughing fit in his hands, suddenly terrified of making any more noise. He feels oddly heavy and light-headed at the same time and it doesn't seem to matter how long he waits, nothing about this is falling into place. He has no idea where he is, how he got here, or where Dean and Dad might be, _and_ – he realises with a sickening lurch of panic – these aren't even his clothes. He looks down at himself with an ever-growing sense of horror. The thing that tripped him turns out to be a large pair of sweatpants and boxer shorts, tangled around his ankles. His only other item of clothing is a huge grey t-shirt that hangs all the way to his knees.

It doesn't make sense, he thinks dumbly. Panic seems to have robbed him of the ability to think straight. None of this makes sense and he can't even begin to figure out what happened. He searches his memories for a clue but the last thing he remembers is Dean smirking and challenging him to a wrestling match, winner gets the next shower.

"Sam?"

Sam freezes. The call comes from nearby, he thinks. There's a strange echoing quality to it that makes it hard to figure out which direction it came from. Not in the same room as him, not yet, but definitely close to it, and even though the caller knows his name, Sam doesn't recognise the voice. It sounds human – it almost sounds... worried? - but a lot of monsters have the power of speech and something human couldn't have teleported him here so suddenly.

"Sammy?"

It's coming closer. Maybe it heard the crash when he fell into the shelf. Maybe it can even smell his blood or hear his heartbeat. Who knows what it can do? Sam breathes in carefully, ignoring the scratch in his throat, and tries to mentally will his heart rate into slowing down. He feels dizzy and lost and there's no time to wonder about what's coming. He needs to get out of sight and get his hands on a weapon, now. He can figure out his next move after that. There's so much stuff in here, surely something will prove useful.

He should probably ditch the boxer shorts and sweatpants – they're so big they're sure to restrict his movement – but he doesn't know where he is or what's coming after him and the idea of discarding what little clothing he has is abhorrent. Instead he hitches them up as high as they'll go – which is almost to his armpits – and pins an arm to his side to stop them from falling down. Then he clambers to his feet. He has to use the shelves to pull himself upright and even then the room seems to be tilting to one side. It occurs to him that he should probably be cold. The sweatpants and t-shirt are worn thin but he's hot, covered in a sheen of clammy sweat, and it's getting harder to breathe, like the air in the room is thick and clogging his throat with each inhale. Sam thinks vaguely that this must be what it's like to be trapped inside a burning building. He breathes shallowly to try to stop himself from coughing as he stumbles away from the sound of approaching footsteps. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, dizzyingly fast.

He needs a gun. There's something wrong with him. Really wrong. Like maybe he really has been drugged and whatever he was dosed with is wearing off. He has a sinking feeling that his argument with Dean happened some time ago, that wherever he is, he's been here for a while, even though his memory cuts off abruptly as if he were transported straight from the motel room to... here.

Sam moves down the aisle of shelves, eyes skimming over various precious stones and talismans, intricately carved boxes and rows and rows of ancient books. He can't find any firearms but there is a shelf that holds an impressive collection of knives. He hesitates over some of the bigger, more lethal-looking blades but picks up one of the smallest first. If it comes down to it, he's sure he'll be no match for whatever's taken him in close range combat, no matter how big his knife is. He can barely see straight. His only hope will be a sneak attack so he folds the switch-blade into the waistband of his sweatpants, rolling the fabric over it so it's concealed. Then he grabs one of the bigger knives anyway because he can't stand how vulnerable he feels without some kind of weapon in his hand. Anyway, the monster might expect him to arm himself and walking past a shelf full of knives without taking one would be stupid. At the very least, the blade in his hand might distract it enough that it won't search too hard for another one.

"You in here, Sammy?"

Sam sucks in a breath, startled by the close proximity of the voice. He quickly ducks down in an attempt to blend into some boxes on the bottom shelf and clutches the knife close to his chest.

It's in the room with him. For one brief, stupid moment Sam wants to cry out of sheer terror. There's a monster after him and he'd give anything, absolutely anything for Dean and Dad to show up and save him right now. He's never had to fight anything without backup before. Hell, _he's_ usually the backup. Most of the hunts Dad's taken him on have been nothing more than holding a gun and watching his family's backs. And he's always known what he was facing. This, hunting blind and alone... this is too much. What is he going to do?

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence. Sam imagines a dark figure, motionless in a doorway, listening, and forces himself to stay as still as possible, even though his legs want to tremble with the effort of staying crouched. He clasps a hand over his mouth to smother the sound of his rattling breath.

"Sammy?" the monster calls again.

Think like a Winchester, Sam tells himself sternly. Winchesters don't fall to pieces, not even if they're thirteen years old and facing a surprise solo hunt. This is what Dad trained him for.

So what does he know? The monster knows his name. Maybe it can read minds? Or maybe it's been stalking him. It might have the ability to teleport people or control them and wipe their memories. And it sounds human. At this distance, the voice even sounds a little familiar, almost like... like it's trying to imitate Dean. It's too deep, but the inflections, the way it says his name and the ring of what seems like honest concern in it's tone, it all sounds just like his brother, and somehow that makes it seem a lot creepier than if it was unrecognisable. Wendigos and shape-shifters can copy people but they can do it much better than this thing. This is a long way from a Wendigos type of terrain anyway. Some ghosts can teleport people, if they're strong enough, maybe even possess and control them... but ghosts don't usually walk around calling for people. They just kind of... appear. None of this adds up to any kind of monster he can think of.

Footsteps again. Sam catches a flash of movement through the shelves. It's moving cautiously but purposefully, on guard but making no attempt to conceal itself (why would it? It must know that it has the upper hand) and Sam realizes that it's found the shelf he knocked over. He can see the creature's back clearly when it crouches down to inspect the fallen items, definitely human in appearance. It looks male, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt stretched over broad shoulders, tall and heavily muscled in a lean, deadly sort of way. Sam doesn't doubt that it can move fast and hit hard. With it's back turned he can't guess at an age but age doesn't matter so much as size and this thing is big, too big for him to take on by himself even with his training, and especially not when he feels like a stiff breeze could knock him down and keep him there. So if he can't fight, he needs to evade. The door must be near where the creature last spoke, somewhere not far from where it is now. Maybe Sam can get around it...

"Sam, I know you're in here," the monster says, pushing itself upright. Sam watches it's legs as it moves along the row of shelves, mercifully picking the opposite direction to the one Sam chose, until it turns a corner, out of sight. "Whatever you're doing, whatever you think is happening, it's just the fever, okay? Nothing crazy going on, you're just sick."

The hilt of the knife is slippery with sweat. Sam swipes his palms on his t-shirt, readjusting his grip. Fever? He definitely feels feverish. Maybe the man's not lying about that but there's sure as shit something crazy going on. A fever doesn't explain what this place is or how he got here or where Dean and Dad are. Surely this thing isn't dumb enough to think he'd give up so easily so what is it doing? Why is it talking like it knows him, like it's worried about him?

This train of thought is getting him no where. It must be worried about him getting away and that's exactly what he needs to do. He can figure out the rest later, when he's back with Dean and Dad. Slowly, checking through the shelves for any hint of movement, Sam rises to his feet.

The world spins again, darkness creeping into the edges of his vision. He slams his eyes closed and breathes in carefully. He's too scared to steady himself on the shelves, afraid he might knock something else off that would betray his position, but after a moment the head rush passes and he opens his eyes, ready to move.

The whole room is a maze of shelves. Sam edges further away from the one he knocked over, checking warily around each corner before he takes them, praying he doesn't run into a dead end.

There are more dead light bulbs hanging from the ceiling than live ones and the resulting shadows are at once a blessing and a curse. Easier to hide but harder to find an exit. He's as quiet as he can be, taking small, measured breaths to avoid a coughing fit, but the sweatpants are dragging on the concrete floor and even the whisper of fabric seems too loud. The man has stopped calling him. He can't hear footsteps anymore either. The realisation stops Sam in his tracks. Is the man waiting somewhere, listening? Or silently stalking him through the shelves? He whips around to check behind him, gripped by a sudden terror that the man has snuck up on him. The aisle is empty. _Stop panicking_ , he tells himself, and turns back just in time to see the man step around a corner barely ten feet ahead of him.

Sam startles back a step and stumbles on the dragging sweatpants, rights himself and swings the knife out in front of him in what he knows is a feeble attempt at self-defence. He keeps one hand clamped tightly against his waist – he doesn't want to lose his pants and he can't afford to lose the second blade.

"Stay away from me," he warns, fully expecting the order to be ignored. He braces himself for an attack but the man looks just as startled as Sam is by their sudden face-to-face meeting.

"Whoa," he says, in that deep Dean-like voice, backing up a little, hands raising in the universal position of surrender. His eyebrows draw tightly together as he squints down the aisle with an incredulous frown. " _Sam?_ "

Sam stares, waiting, but the anticipated attack doesn't come. The man keeps his hands up, green eyes looking Sam up and down with an air of bewilderment. Which doesn't make sense. The man was looking for him so why would finding him be such a surprise?

"How do you know my name?" Sam asks finally, because the man seems to be waiting for him to say something, and it seems like as good a question as any to start with.

"How do I..." the man echoes, a little faintly. "Fuck, you're not just younger, you're, like, seriously younger, right?"

"What?"Sam asks, crinkling his nose in confusion.

"Did you touch something?" the man asks urgently, still staring at Sam as though he's something to be amazed by. "Something on the shelves? Or read something maybe? One of those books on the floor back there?" He motions his head vaguely towards the shelf Sam broke, and he keeps his hands in the air, which Sam appreciates even if it does confuse him. He feels like he's being scolded as though he were a child who had done something wrong by accident, but not outright threatened. This guy seems to be on the way to figuring out something that Sam can't even begin to make sense of.

"I don't know," he answers honestly, edging backwards a little. He shoves a hank of sweaty hair out of his face and studies the man closely, searching for some sort of clue that might identify what kind of monster he is, still waiting for some kind of assault. The man is too solid to be a ghost but that's about as much as Sam can figure out from his appearance. He has short, dark blonde hair and stands around six feet tall, broad-chested and muscled under his shirt. He holds himself with the same sort of wary readiness Sam has come to recognise in hunters, even though he's trying to come across as non-threatening. There's something in his eyes that makes Sam think of his father.

"Okay," the man says, in that tone people use when things aren't okay at all but they're trying to convince someone else that they are. Sam is definitely not convinced. The man seems to notice this because he backs off another step, putting a little more room between them. Sam's not sure what to make of it but his arm is starting to shake from the effort of holding the knife out in front of him so he lowers it to his side. Honestly, it doesn't matter whether he's holding it ready or not; if the man decides to attack it's sure to take all of two seconds to disarm him either way.

"Do you remember the last few years at all?" the man asks hopefully.

Sam doesn't understand the question. His head is spinning again, those dark edges creeping into his vision, and his lungs ache. Why wouldn't he remember the last few years? He can't have been here that long. Sam glances around at the shelves, all towering over him, blocking him in. "I was in a motel room," he ventures cautiously.

"Shit," the man groans. He lowers his arms to scrub his hands down his face and Sam backs up again.

The world does a sudden flip and he loses his already shaky balance, stumbling sideways into the shelves. He tries to catch himself but his sweat-slicked hand slips off the cool metal and he falls to his knees. Everything spins. The coughing fit he's been trying to ignore starts deep in his lungs, harsh and painful, and he sees the man's fuzzy shape lurch towards him.

"No!" Sam chokes, slashing the knife out blindly in the direction of movement. It's immediately knocked from his grasp by a blow to his wrist. He tries to scramble after it but he can't breathe. He's so hot, it feels like his blood is starting to boil, and the man's hands are icy against his skin, trying to latch onto his arms, trying to drag him somewhere. Sam can taste blood in the back of his throat, then on his tongue, Jesus, what's wrong with him? The man catches one of his swinging fists and pulls him to his feet but Sam can't hold his own weight anymore. He sags back towards the ground, his vision darkening even further until he's sure he's about to pass out. The man's saying something that Sam can't make out while he struggles to draw breath. He tries to pull away but the ground drops out from under him as the man gives up on dragging him and swoops him off his feet instead. He's clamped tight against the man's chest and hurried away through the maze of shelves, then down a long, blank corridor that Sam only catches glimpses of as he tries uselessly to twist and kick his way out of the man's grasp.

"Man, you're strong for a sick kid," the man grunts, blocking a fist to the face and pinning Sam's wrist again.

"Let me go!" Sam demands as the man tries to safely manoeuvre them through a doorway – Sam smacks his ankle on the door frame anyway – even though he knows he sounds pathetic and, if the man were to put him down, he thinks he might just fall over.

"Sorry, Sammy." The man really does sound sorry. "I'll explain once your brain stops trying to fry itself."

And that's all the warning he gets before he's suddenly plunged into ice cold water. The shock knocks the air from his lungs; he gasps and narrowly avoids inhaling water as he goes under, panicking, unable to make sense of anything. All he knows is that he can't let the monster drown him. He thrashes wildly, beating frantically at the hands trying to twist in his t-shirt. He's in something shallow, a bath tub, his hand finds the rim and he resurfaces in a spray of water, coughing and spluttering and fighting wildly. The man is swearing. The room is filled with a cacophony of of screams and yells and churning, splashing water.

Pain bursts in Sam's elbow as it connects with the side of the tub, hard, his bare feet kicking and slipping against the tub's smooth surface as his numb fingers scrabble at the hand fisted in his shirt. The man growls in wordless frustration and shoves him back down, and Sam's thrashing earns him a mouthful of water. It rushes down his scorched throat and cuts off his screams. The man swears again and hauls him upright as he chokes and gasps desperately for air, a broad hand thumping him between his shoulder blades.

"Damn it, Sam, stop!" the man yells, voice huge in the sudden quiet of Sam's suffocation. It's _me_ , it's Dean. I'm here. Let me help you."

Sam chokes out pink-tinged water and swipes his sodden bangs out of his face so he can stare up at the man's green eyes, studying his features for the truth. He can feel the switch-blade, heavy against his stomach. Disbelief wars with confusion as he remembers thinking that the voice calling him sounded something like Dean's, that there was an echo of John Winchester in the man's face.

"You're not Dean," he grits out through teeth that are starting to chatter. The water's so _cold_. Are there actual ice cubes in here? "You're too _old_."

The man claiming to be Dean eyes him warily. "Actually, you're too young," he says, which just confuses Sam more. "You gonna keep trying to fight me?"

Sam considers this. The man's still holding the front of his shirt tight in one hand. The other is pressed against his back but it doesn't seem like he's in imminent danger of being drowned and so far fighting hasn't helped him much.

"Let me out of this bath," he tries instead, and surprisingly the man immediately adjusts his grip to help Sam stand up and step out. Sam keeps a hand clenched in the waist of his sweatpants, reassured by the feel of the blade concealed there.

"You were burning up," the man explains apologetically, backing away a little. Sam's not sure whether the guy's trying to give him space or trying to block the exit.

Sam shivers, wrapping his free arm around himself. The t-shirt is clinging to his skin like cellophane, sweatpants drooping under the weight of the water soaked into them.

"Where are my clothes?" he asks, glancing around uneasily. The bathroom is small, the door on the other side of the man who claims to be Dean but can't be. No way out.

"You're wearing them," the man says.

Frustration is building in Sam's chest. The ice water has shocked some of the clouds from his head along with the fever and he just wants to get a straight answer out of this guy for once.

"These aren't my clothes," he spits out. His teeth are still chattering, he can feel himself shivering and he's probably not doing a great job at convincing his captor that he isn't completely terrified. He's just so confused and right now all he wants is to be wearing his own things. "I was wearing something else."

"I don't know how to explain-"

"I want my fucking clothes!" Sam demands, as if he's in any position to demand anything. The man surprises him (again, everything this guy does is a surprise) by acting like he is.

"Okay, okay, just... chill, okay? I'll find you something." And then the man makes a mistake. Such a stupid, obvious mistake that all at once Sam's sure that it can't be Dean because Dean would be smart enough to know that you should never turn your back on a Winchester.

"Nothing here's gonna be your size," the man's saying as he reaches for a bathrobe hanging on the wall, "but you can wear this until-"

Sam has the switch-blade unravelled from his waistband, flicked open and against the man's throat before he can finish his sentence. It's a little awkward – he has to reach up so far – but Sam's fast and he's certain that he can cut the guy's throat faster than the guy can disarm him.

"Don't move," he orders as the man freezes, back stiffening.

"Okay, not moving," the man agrees, his easy tone at odds with the tension in his body.

Sam thinks quickly. This might be his only chance. "How do I get out of here?"

The man hesitates. "Look, you don't want to leave-"

"Bullshit," Sam snaps.

"Okay." The man breathes out slowly, like he's trying to control his temper. Sam holds the knife steady. "I phrased that wrong. You _can't_ leave. You're sick and it's dangerous and you're, like, twelve years old or something. I can't just let you walk out of here like this."

"Like what?" Sam asks before he can stop himself. He probably shouldn't engage in conversation but he wants to know what's wrong with him.

"Like a frikking twelve year old!" the man exclaims, like that should be obvious, and Sam is getting really annoyed by never getting an answer he can understand.

"I'm not _twelve_ ," he says, like it matters. "I'll be fourteen next month."

The man is quiet for a moment. "Fourteen..." he says, "So you think you were just in Michigan, right? That really old motel with the huge field behind it that Dad made us run laps of?"

"I _was_ just in Michigan," Sam says stubbornly, but he's less certain now. There is a large field behind the motel and of course Dad's been making use of it for training. It doesn't prove anything though. Anyone watching him would know about the field and the laps he's been running. What's more convincing is something less explainable, something about the way the man talks, the way he moves...

"No, you weren't," Maybe-Dean says patiently. "Just listen, okay? Something happened to you. You touched something or read something in that storage room and it, uh... de-aged you somehow, I guess."

 _De-aged_? Sam doesn't move.

The man sighs. "You wanna put the knife away so we can talk about this?"

"I want to know what the fuck's going on." Sam doesn't put the knife away. Now that he has it out he's scared to move an inch in case he gives the man the opportunity to disarm him. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. He should have waited.

"Yeah, well, me too," the man fires back, sounding so much like Dean that Sam has no idea what to believe anymore. "What I do know is that you're not supposed to be thirteen years old, Sammy. You're meant to be thirty. And I really am Dean and you're gonna be pretty upset if you stab me before you figure that out so please, put the knife away so we can figure out what to do next."

Sam's frozen with indecision. What is he supposed to do? What if the man isn't lying and he really is Dean? He can't risk hurting his brother but maybe it's all a trick and the man (monster) is using that fact to his advantage. So far the man hasn't done anything to try to hurt him, not unless he counts being dumped in the ice bath – and even though he's soaking wet and freezing now he can't deny that it's better than boiling blood and air so think he could hardly breathe. Maybe the man really is trying to help him rather than harm him. And he could have, if he wanted to. Even now Sam's not so sure that the man couldn't disarm him if he chose to. Maybe-Dean definitely doesn't seem quite as concerned about the knife as he should be.

The silence stretches as Sam hesitates. The wrong move could ruin everything.

"If I wanted to hurt you, don't you think I would've done it by now?" Maybe-Dean presses, following Sam's thoughts.

"Maybe you need me for something," Sam counters uncertainly. This is getting him no where. Whether it's Dean or not, the man doesn't seem likely to let him leave without putting up a fight – a fight that Sam would surely lose – and there's no way he can bring himself to actually slit the guys throat, maybe not even if he wasn't claiming to be Dean. He needs to think of something. Fuck, he needs someone to tell him what to do next because he doesn't know. "I want to talk to my Dad," he says, even though he's sure he sounds unbearably childish. For once he's willing to do whatever Dad tells him if only it will somehow get him out of this mess.

There's a twitch between the man's shoulder blades. "The numbers you know won't work, Sam. They were disconnected years ago."

That's convenient. "How do I know you're not lying?" Sam challenges. "You think you can just tell me I'm in the future and expect me to take your word for it?"

"It's not the future, it's the present," Maybe-Dean says, "You're just past-you for some reason."

"That's not an answer," Sam says flatly.

The man breathes out a sigh. "Fine, you wanna try, go ahead. My phone's in my back pocket."

This is insane. Maybe this guy's just a lunatic who drugs kids and dumps them in ice baths and messes with their heads. Sam keeps the knife steady against the man's throat, expecting an attack as he reaches his other hand into the pocket, but Maybe-Dean is perfectly still and what Sam pulls out doesn't look like any phone he's ever seen before. It lights up under his touch like something out of a sci-fi, brightly coloured icons set out on a tiny, flat screen, and no number pad in sight. Sam stares at it with a dawning sense of horror. He's already sure that the man is right and he won't be able to reach Dad on this thing. He doesn't know how to make it work, for a start, and also... he's starting to think that maybe he really isn't supposed to be thirteen years old.

The man – Dean? - slowly twists away from the knife and Sam lets him pry it out of his hand. The blade clatters against the porcelain when the man drops it in the sink and for a long moment they both eye each other uncertainly.

"This must seem really strange to you," the man says finally, retrieving the bathrobe he'd been reaching for when Sam stopped him.

"It doesn't to you?" Sam asks, a little faintly.

The man takes his phone back and pushes the robe into Sam's hands instead, huffing a dry laugh. "Nothing surprises me much anymore, but this... yeah, this one is a little weird."

 **To Be Continued**


	2. Chapter 2

**Out of Time**

 **Chapter Two**

Sam lets himself be led down unfamiliar hallways. He's light-headed and floaty, everything seems totally surreal, and he's not sure whether what he's feeling is shock or the mystery illness the man who might be Dean still hasn't explained. All he knows is that he doesn't ever remember feeling quite the same kind of horrible as he does now as he drips down the corridors, leaving wet footprints behind him and shivering despite the thick bathrobe he's wrapped up in. He's too tired to do anything other than comply when the man nudges him down onto the edge of a bed he doesn't recognise.

"Where am I?" he asks. This isn't a motel.

"Home," Dean says. (God, he hopes it's Dean.) It's not a house either. Sam feels claustrophobic despite the high ceilings and the long winding hallways he glimpsed on the way here, and it takes him a while to realise that it's the lack of windows that unsettles him. Are they underground?

"Here." Dean's holding a thermometer out to him. "Take that and then get those wet clothes off. You don't need pneumonia on top of everything else."

Sam hesitates, tugging the bathrobe tighter around his chin. Maybe it's really Dean but maybe it's not and either way he's not willing to take his clothes off around the guy.

"I'll find you something else to wear," Dean says, pressing the thermometer into Sam's hand. "Stop looking so terrified, I'm not asking you to perform a strip-tease."

"I'm not terrified," Sam denies immediately. "If you try and touch me I'll kick your ass." Maybe they both know that Sam can't kick Dean's ass right now but saying it makes him feel better. He's not about to let the guy pull anything without putting up a fight.

"Just take your temperature, Sammy." Dean rolls his eyes a little and starts rummaging through a set of drawers. Sam notices that he doesn't fully turn his back on him this time.

"What's wrong with me?" Sam's gaze wanders to the night stand Dean had taken the thermometer from. It bears the telltale signs of sickness being treated in this room; a cloth resting in a bowl of water, crumpled tissues stained red that remind Sam of the metallic tang creeping up his throat earlier, bottles of water and small containers of pills.

"For one thing, you can't follow simple instructions."

Sam tosses the thermometer down on the bed defiantly. "I want to know what's going on." Something more than the blunt fact that he's apparently sick and younger than he's supposed to be. He wants to know what illness he has, what this place is, how they got here, where Dad is, everything.

"Join the club," Dean shakes his head and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'stubborn damn teenagers' but he stops searching through the drawers and turns to face Sam. "So you saw that store room, right? Where I found you, with all the shelves? I'm guessing fever-brained Sammy went and found something shiny to play with while I was filling up the tub. And there's, like, a million cursed objects and old spell books in there so I'm gonna have to go figure out which pretty, sparkly thing caught your eye and turned you into mini-you. And how to change you back. Until then – and I know this isn't your strong suit – you just need to do what I tell you."

Sam huffs petulantly. Dean has that effect on him, especially when he's hiding things and giving Sam half-truths. Nothing he's said has explained anything more than what Sam's already been told, and he's pretty sure that was deliberate. "I was coughing up blood." _Explain that_.

Dean doesn't. He turns and starts rummaging through the drawers again. "You're sick," he says shortly, which, _duh_ , Sam's figured out that much himself. He opens his mouth to press for more details but Dean cuts him off with another roll of his eyes. "Your throat's just torn up from all the coughing you've been doing," he says, but he doesn't quite look Sam in the eye when he says it. Sam's throat doesn't feel torn up. The pain seems to come from somewhere deeper, in his lungs. "Now get that thermometer in your mouth because I decide to take your temperature the hard way."

Sam quickly sticks the thermometer under his tongue, which makes Dean smirk. Sam glares at him.

"We're gonna have to get creative with your clothes. None of this is even going to come close to fitting you yet." Dean holds up a pair of sweatpants that look like they could fit a Sam in each leg. "Got any safety pins in here? Oh, never mind, you wouldn't know."

"Are they mine?" Sam asks around the thermometer, which makes it come out sounding more like 'A'dey'ine?' but Dean has always been able to understand him. It's like a test, seeing as Sam can't think of anything else to do other than gather evidence to either convince him that it's really Dean or that it's really not, but also, he really wants to know if he actually grows big enough to fit in those pants.

"Sure are, shorty." Dean doesn't skip a beat. "You're about to hit the first of many, many growth spurts."

"Am I taller than you?"

Dean shoots him a look that says _don't enjoy this too much_. "Slightly."

"How much is slightly?"

"How hard is it to shut up and take your damn temperature?"

Sam rolls his eyes. The thermometer beeps and Dean snatches it from Sam's mouth before Sam has time to raise a hand to his lips.

"I can read a thermometer, you know," he says crossly. Has Dean always treated him like such a little kid? No, there's more to it than that; Dean's trying to hide something.

"So can I," Dean says, infuriatingly, frowning at the thermometer. "Well, it's better than it was earlier, at least. You feeling less scrambled?"

Sam glares. "Tell me what's wrong with me."

Dean slips the thermometer into his pocket. "Nothing, Sammy, it's just the 'flu."

"Stop lying to me!" Sam demands. Dean won't look him in the eye and he won't let him see the numbers on the thermometer and there's no way this is just the 'flu. "Where's Dad? I want to talk to him." Maybe if Dean won't tell him the truth, Dad will. Dad's never been one to sugar coat things.

"He's not here," Dean dodges.

"So call him. Tell him to get here!" Why is Dean being so difficult?

"Sam, he..." Dean stops himself and turns away from Sam to take a clean t-shirt from one of the drawers but not before Sam sees his expression and he _knows_ , he knows by the drop in his stomach before Dean can even try to think up a lie.

"Dad's dead?" His voice doesn't sound like his own. He feels curiously like he's floating just outside his body, separate from the hands that clutch the bathrobe tight against his stomach as if recoiling from a kick to the gut. He's not entirely sure whether he's breathing or not.

Dean turns back to him, grief and regret darkening his features. "Sam." His hands on Sam's shoulders feel distant and his voice seems even further. "Don't freak out. It's not... This is all... out of context, okay? It's probably better if you don't ask questions. The answers aren't going to make sense. It'll just..."

"He's really dead?" There must be some sort of mistake. Dad is too damn stubborn to die, too strong, too determined to take down every monster out there. It's impossible for the world to be going on without him in it. Sam suddenly and desperately wants nothing else but to close his eyes and find himself back in his own time, with Dean the right age and Dad using up all the hot water in the shower. He tries it but it doesn't work. He's still in an unfamiliar bedroom and the Dean sitting next to him with an arm cautiously curled around his shoulders is in his thirties and Dad is... Dad is gone.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean says gently. "This is messed up, even for us, but I'll fix it, okay? Change you back into grown up Sam and get your memories back and..." Dean falters a little. "... and it won't seem so bad," he finishes lamely. Sam gets the impression that a lot of the memories he's missing aren't good ones.

It's weird, being comforted by a stranger, even if that stranger is meant to be his older – much older – brother. At first, the shock of Dad's death pushes any other thought aside and he barely notices the arms around him, but there's some part of him, a tiny spark of rationality, that warns him not to break down just yet, reminding him that he's in a strange place with a potential enemy. If Dad... if Dad was here, he'd tell Sam not to lose his head. He needs to focus and come up with a plan. There's no real proof that Dean is Dean and his first priority should be changing that. Maybe it's not Dean at all and Dad's still out there somewhere with his real brother, looking for him. Is that really a crazier thought than being de-aged and effectively dropped into the future?

Dean seems to sense the change in his thoughts because he pulls away a little warily. Sam realizes that he's tensed up and immediately tries to loosen his muscles. It would be better to let the man think he trusts him, or at least that he doesn't outright distrust him. He tries to think of something to say that might help this cause but Dean stops him by standing up and dropping the clothes he'd gathered into Sam's lap.

"Here. I'll, uh, give you some privacy to get changed. And I'll look for some safety pins so you can stop looking at me like I'm some sort of pervert."

Sam tries to wipe whatever look he has off his face but it doesn't matter, Dean's heading for the door. Sam's heart leaps into his throat (is he really being left alone?) as the footsteps recede down the hallway.

He should forget about the dry clothes and just run, but he's still shivering even with the robe and his desire for warmth temporarily overcomes his better judgement. Quickly, he sheds the robe and kicks off the damp sweatpants, dragging the fresh pair on before peeling off the t-shirt that's clinging uncomfortably to his chest like a second skin and replacing that too, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable and exposed the whole time. He looks like he's playing dress-up. There's no way he can fight in these clothes. Sam thinks for a moment, then pulls the belt out of the discarded robe and ties it around his waist, cinching the sweatpants tight. With the pant legs rolled over half a dozen times the outfit is more manoeuvrable, at least, but his only chance will be making his way out undetected. He could do it. Dean's always telling him how sneaky he can be when he wants to. Once he's out he can find a phone he knows how to use or something to confirm the date, anything that might either corroborate or disprove the man's story.

But he turns to the door only to find that the man is already back, leaning against the door jamb with one eyebrow raised accusingly.

"Going somewhere?" he asks dryly. He looks annoyed but resigned, as if Sam's doing exactly what he expects him to do.

"Where would I go?" Sam scoffs a denial anyway, frustrated. He should have just left. Dean and Dad wouldn't have wasted time changing clothes, not even if it meant getting pneumonia. "I just want to look around."

"Right," Dean says flatly. "Because you couldn't possibly just listen to me when I tell you that you're too sick to be out of bed. You know that's what got us into this mess in the first place, right?"

"How would I know that?" Sam asks, sitting back down on the bed in a vague attempt at proving that he wasn't trying to escape. "I'm not old enough for it to have happened to me yet."

That makes Dean pause. His forehead creases into a frown as he tries to figure out whether Sam's making sense or not – Sam's not sure himself – before he seems to give up with a shrug. "Whatever. I couldn't find any safety pins but it looks like you sorted that problem already." Green eyes flicker to the makeshift belt and Sam twists his hands in it self-consciously, making sure it's still tight. "I got you something else instead."

Dean steps into the room, holding up what looks like a black, flat rectangle. Sam frowns at it dubiously as it's pushed into his hands.

"What is it?" he asks, flipping it over to inspect it from other angles in case they decide to give up the object's secrets. Maybe it's one of the cursed items Dean says are stashed in this place.

Dean chuckles, reaching out to turn it back over. "Watch this." He pushes a tiny button in the top right corner that Sam had missed and the rectangle suddenly lights up, just like Dean's phone did, a screen appearing on the impossibly flat surface.

"It's a computer!" Sam exclaims in amazement, pulling it closer so he can study the icons on the screen – he was kind of too busy feeling his world crashing down to appreciate the technology of Dean's phone earlier – and because it's so strange and unexpected, and maybe because he still feels vague and unbalanced from the fever, he completely messes up by forgetting to keep his eyes on the potential threat until he feels something cold slide around his wrist and by then it's too late. The handcuffs latch with a soft click and Dean snaps the other end around the bed frame.

"Hey!" Sam protests, already swinging, planning – if he can just make contact maybe the man will be dazed long enough for Sam to search his pockets for the key – but Dean moves like he can read Sam's mind, ducking out of his reach before the blow can even come close. The tiny computer clatters to the floor as Sam jumps up but Dean's too quick and the handcuff snaps taut around Sam's wrist as soon as he's upright, pulling him off balance. He falls back against the side of the bed, knocking a couple of pill bottles off the night stand on his way down. They rattle across the carpet as Sam's head spins, cursing himself internally, and apparently his lungs really object to yelling because they constrict and burn and suddenly he can't stop coughing. This is not the 'flu. This can't just be the 'flu. Sam curls into himself, folding his arms around his chest as if cradling the pain, and feels hopelessly like giving up and having that breakdown he talked himself out of earlier. If Dean isn't Dean, Sam is totally screwed now.

"Sorry," the man says when Sam manages to catch his breath, what feels like an eternity later. He's watching Sam warily from a few feet away, one hand half-raised as if he wants to help but is holding himself back. "I knew I wouldn't get away with that without you throwing a punch."

Sam scowls, swiping the back of his free hand across his lips. A bright red smear appears against his pale skin and he does his best to ignore it, even though the sight sends a hum of panic through his veins.

"Why'd you do it then?" he asks, tugging experimentally on the cuffs. There's no give. The cold metal is snug against his wrist. He can feel the man's eyes on the streak of blood and when he looks up, he catches a glimpse of what might be guilt and fear etched into the grooves of Dean's forehead, a promise of some terrible secret in the drawn eyebrows. It's gone before Sam can figure it out though, swapped for a shit-eating grin.

"Like you're not a flight risk," Dean scoffs. "Get real, Sammy. I taught you half the shit you know and you think I can't tell when you're about to rabbit?" The grin fades. "It's what me and Dad told you to do, isn't it? That if you ever found yourself alone and outnumbered you should keep your head down and take the first opportunity to ditch and come find us, right? I remember that."

"I'm not outnumbered," Sam points out, mostly because he doesn't know what to do when the guy talks like that, like Dean. It's creepy and comforting and confusing all at once and he just _can't_.

"Dude, it's me verses you, and you're sick _and_ half your usual size," the man scoffs. "You only count as, like, half a person right now so yes, you are outnumbered."

Sam's scowl deepens. "If you were really Dean, you'd know that handcuffs can't hold me forever."

"They don't have to," Dean shrugs. "I just need you to stay put long enough for me to go check out that storage room." He steps forward and Sam shies back against the bed, bracing himself. If Dean comes close enough, Sam might be able to sweep his legs out from under him and get hold of the key to the handcuffs.

Dean pauses, frowning at him reproachfully as if he can read Sam's thoughts, and Sam feels suddenly and ridiculously guilty for hurting the guy's feelings. He doesn't let himself relax though, not even when Dean simply reaches down to pick up the flat computer – carefully staying out of Sam's range the whole time.

"It's called a Tablet," he says conversationally, as if he didn't just handcuff Sam to the bed. "And it's yours so try not to break it or you're gonna end up pissed off at yourself, or pissed off at me for letting you break it."

Sam glares at him. He's not interested in the Tablet. He wants to leave, to find his own proof about what's going on.

The man sighs. "Look, I'll make you a deal. I'll give this back to you and you can knock yourself out reading about some of the crazy monsters we've run into over the years. You – older you, normal you... oh, whatever, you've been building this database or something." He selects one of the icons by touching the screen with his fingertip and a page of text appears. "It's pretty much just facts about Supernatural stuff but I'm guessing it'll be more interesting than staring at the walls. But you need to skip the Houdini act. I have to figure out how to fix you and that's going to be a hell of a lot easier if I don't end up needing to chase you around town first. So how about it? You think you might be able to just... trust me for a while?"

"Why don't you take the cuffs off and trust me to stay here?" Sam counters sarcastically, which makes the man twitch like he wants to start tearing his own hair out. Whatever. Sam has no inclination to stay put and read about monsters if he can help it. Blind trust has never been his strong suit.

"I forgot what a fucking brat you used to be," Dean growls, without any heat. Maybe even with a hint of pride. He stares Sam down assessingly. Then he laughs and tosses the Tablet onto the bed – not coming any closer to Sam than he has to. "Have fun with that. And if you do manage to get out of those cuffs, at least try to remember how to get here so you can find your way back when you figure out what an idiot you've been."

Sam scowls again. He's being mocked and he can't figure out if the teasing coming from this stranger makes him feel more or less safe but it definitely pisses him off. That and the fact that he's not so sure if he really can get out of the handcuffs. He's done it before, with Dad or Dean's guidance, with some sort of tool provided for him, but there's no guarantee that he can do it again in these conditions.

"Can't I come with you to the store room?" he tries. "I can help figure out how to fix me."

Dean quirks an eyebrow. "Yeah, or you could knock me out when my back is turned and take off." He laughs ruefully, once again displaying that uncanny ability to read Sam's mind. "In the last hour you've pulled two separate knives on me and thrown I don't know how many punches. Out of the two of us, I think I'm in more danger than you are right now."

"What, are you scared?" Sam taunts. Maybe a blow to the ego will work. It would've worked on the brother Sam remembers.

This Dean just laughs though. "Of a thirteen year old Sam Winchester? Most definitely."

XXX

The first half hour Sam is left alone, he spends searching his immediate surroundings diligently for a paper clip, bit of wire, or a pin, but apparently his older self never foresaw a situation in which he would need to free himself from handcuffs in his own bed because the side table is utterly empty of anything helpful. In fact, the whole room is rather empty other than the drawers that hold his clothes and a small pile of books against the far wall, and Sam's not fully convinced that it really is his room or that he had an older self at all.

The next half hour is spent alternately trying to puzzle out the best way to dislocate his thumb and trying to build up the courage to do it. Dad did it once, he remembers, on one of those nights they had to pack up quick and skip town with the threat of policemen and social workers darkening the mood in the Impala. Sam manages to mangle his wrist a little in his attempts but the cuff is tight and he doesn't even come close to sliding his hand free.

Finally, grudgingly, he picks up the Tablet. Maybe there's something on there that will help him. The screen has turned off while he was messing with the handcuffs but Sam finds the button he saw Dean push earlier and it comes to life under his fingertips. A small pop-up in the bottom right corner tells Sam that the Wi-Fi, whatever that is, has been disconnected. Seeing as the browser Sam opens refuses to load, he assumes it's something to do with the internet. Of course. Dean told him that he shouldn't ask questions and maybe the world wide web holds some answers, or possibly a way of contacting someone, that Dean doesn't think he should have. He mucks around with it for a while but he can't get it to connect. It's disconcerting. Usually, Sam's great with computers but this one is full of icons with words like _Twitter_ and _Youtube_ that are completely foreign to him. And it's so _small_ , he can't even begin to understand how it works. There are no wires so it must have a battery, a tiny one. He's half-tempted to try to take it apart to see what the inside looks like but finding out the devices secrets is unlikely to help him with his current predicament. He doesn't have any tools anyway and if he did, he'd be using them on the handcuffs, not the computer.

Half-heartedly, Sam scrolls through the monster database Dean told him about, just in case there's something useful in there, but it's like Dean said, nothing but factual information. Some of the monsters sound kind of interesting but it's all completely unhelpful and he's too keyed up to focus on it. He resists the urge to toss the Tablet aside in frustration, remembering that Dean said it belonged to his older self, which means he probably shouldn't break it during a temper tantrum...

… which also means there could be things on here that Dean's never seen before, things that Sam's older self might not want to share.

Sam hesitates. Maybe he shouldn't look. Maybe he should just do what he's supposed to, read the monster database and wait for Dean to get back. If he's lucky, Dean will be Dean, he'll have a plan to fix Sam, and none of this will matter anymore.

But if he's not lucky...

He has to know.

Sam is good at hacking, good at following trails of encryption and figuring out passwords or how to bypass them, even on unfamiliar devices. It's not all that different from the computers he usually works on, just smaller, with an on-screen keyboard and his fingertips replacing the mouse. It doesn't take long to track down a hidden text file buried deep inside the system. It looks like a journal, pages of short entries marked with dates years in the future.

Sam smiles, smugly pleased with himself for having finally found some knowledge that even his captor doesn't have. He skims the most recent entry, eyes catching on words like _Dean_ and _hunt_ and some stuff about being sick but it doesn't make much sense without context. He needs to go back.

Still, it's enough to tentatively push him over towards believing that the man – Dean? Yes, he thinks it really might be Dean – has been telling the truth. The phone and computer offer credible evidence to the possibility that Sam's in the future (or he's past-him in the present, whatever) and the hidden journal with references to hunting and his brother seem to prove that Dean is who he says he is.

The thought has Sam glancing furtively at the door to the hallway, just in case Dean has pulled off another one of his silent approaching. Empty. Sam listens but everywhere is quiet. Dean must still be in the store room. He looks back at the computer, suddenly uncertain. He has his proof already, reading the whole journal isn't really necessary, and he can't shake the strange idea that he's somehow invading his own privacy by reading something that he apparently went to decent lengths to hide.

But it's right _here,_ all the answers, right in front of him. And he's never been good at following orders.

Sam scrolls back a couple of months and begins to read about something his older self refers to as the Trials.

 **To Be Continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Out of Time**

A/N: Endings are hard. Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed or fave-d this. I hope you enjoy the conclusion.

 **Chapter Three**

A few years ago, or rather, many years ago, whenever Sam was ten, Dad and Dean were three days late coming back from a hunt.

They had a tiny rented house at the time and Dad had paid up for the month, so Sam wasn't in danger of being evicted while he sat alone and waited out the seemingly endless hours. He's pretty sure he didn't know that at the time but it never even occurred to him to worry about it anyway; he was far too busy worrying about Dad and Dean and monsters, too consumed by the horrific realization that maybe this time they really wouldn't come back, that if they did, maybe next time they wouldn't. It was all the terrible fears that haunted him in dark, quiet moments brought to life, real and inescapable. He'd never been quite so viscerally aware before of the fact that one day, his family would die. One day he would die. One day a hunt would go wrong and, one way or another, everything would end. Probably sooner rather than later.

The dread, full of hopelessness and useless desperation, that had started as a small flutter of unease when the clock ticked past his father's promised arrival time, had grown by the minute, torn past simple fear and smashed into a kind of terror and grief Sam had never experienced before. By the time Dad and Dean had finally trudged through the door, muddied and bruised and still giddy with post-hunt adrenaline, with a shattered cellphone and muttered apologies from Dad, Sam was physically sick. He hadn't eaten in two days, barely choking down water, because what was the point if there was no one to stay alive for and how could he just eat and drink and _live_ if his family wasn't?

He feels the same way now.

Dean was right; he never should have gone looking for answers. He should have just read about monsters and stayed blissfully ignorant to the utter mess his life has become. Hunting has ruined everything, just like he was scared it would. And he can't change anything, can't go back to his own time or Dad or the brother he remembers because they're all gone, all years in the past and he can never get them back. All he has left is Dean and he's different. His Dean always said he would never let anything bad happen to him but this Dean apparently lets him go on suicide missions.

Sam doesn't know how much time passes before he hears footsteps making their way down the hall. It doesn't seem to matter. He doesn't bother to move. He thinks about never moving again, just refusing to, staying under the blankets he'd burrowed into a while ago. Being wrapped up seemed to help when the shakes started, even if it stretches his handcuffed arm awkwardly and the bed holds no familiarity. It really is his bed though. It really is Dean and this really is his future and everything really is going to end bloody and painful and Sam's starting to wonder whether he's having trouble breathing because of panic or because of the sickness from the Trials.

"You're still here," Dean says from the doorway. He sounds relieved, maybe a little surprised.

"No where else for me to go, right?" Sam says blankly. There's no where else, no one else. This is his life now.

There's a pause. "I guess not. Are you okay?"

That makes Sam snort with bitter laughter – like Dean cares – but then his eyes fill with tears and he has to push his face into the pillows to hide them. "I'm awesome," he says flatly.

The pause is longer this time, slow and suspicious, and Sam doesn't care because Dean is a jerk, an _old_ jerk, and Sam's still a hunter after all these years, and Dad's dead and Uncle Bobby's dead and Sam doesn't know who the fuck Cas is but screw him too because none of this is fair.

"Okay... well-" Dean starts, but suddenly Sam's angry, all this rage filling up the hole terror and despair has carved in his insides. Dean shouldn't be allowed to hide things, Dean shouldn't have given him that stupid Tablet, Dean shouldn't be letting Sam fucking kill himself, so he sits up and throws the computer across the room as hard as he can, even though the movement pulls on his aching chest muscles.

"Were you going to tell me?" he demands, "Or were you just going to keep me in the dark?" That's not even what he's mad about. Dean already told him that he didn't think filling in the blanks was a good idea, and now that they're filled, Sam agrees but somehow the question _why are you letting me die?_ won't come out.

Dean's reflexes haven't been dulled by age. He manages to catch the Tablet before it shatters against the door frame and, for some reason, that just makes Sam angrier. He wishes he had something else to smash.

"Tell you what?" Dean asks, looking from the Tablet to Sam with slowly-forming dread in his eyes.

"About _me_. About why I'm sick," Sam spits. "Were you going to tell me about the Trials? About how I'm meant to be closing the fucking gates of hell?"

"How do you know about that?" Dean demands, raising his voice to be heard over Sam's outburst, and Sam feels the room spin in a way that has nothing to do with fever because Dean's not denying it, Dean's not saying 'no, Sammy, you've got it wrong'. Dean's saying, "Who told you that?"

" _I_ did. It was on that." Sam gestures angrily at the Tablet and Dean looks at it as if it's just slapped him.

"No, it wasn't." He's shaking his head, as if he can stop Sam from knowing just by denying it. "It wasn't. I checked it before I gave it to you."

"Well, I guess you still suck at hacking then." Sam doesn't even care if he hurts his brother's feelings, doesn't care much about anything right now other than pointing out how stupid and dangerous this plan is. "So it's true? You want me to shut away _demons_? Kill _Hell hounds_? Are you even expecting me to live through it?"

"Sam, of course-" Dean tries to cut in but Sam won't let him.

"What the hell happened to us? We're not meant to be here. We were meant to get out! We were meant to be something else!" The words feel foreign in his mouth, strange and wrong; he's never told Dean this before, not that he remembers anyway, because his Dean is young and under Dad's thumb and wants to be a hero, and Sam's never found the words he needs to explain that he just wants to be safe, that he doesn't know how much more of his life he can spend being terrified, but now it seems like he's spent his whole life doing exactly what he swore he wouldn't and he never managed to convince Dean that he deserved normal either. It's not fair. He shouldn't be here. "I wasn't meant to do this forever! And I suck at hunting, I mess up _everything_. What the fuck makes you think I can shut the gates of _Hell_ without dying?"

Sam has more – he feels like he could scream and rage forever right now – but apparently Dean's heard enough because suddenly he's across the room and right in Sam's face, grabbing Sam's shoulders and shaking him hard. Sam feels the handcuffs jerk and a stab of panic jabs him in the gut as he catches sight of the fury on his brother's face.

" _You did!_ " Dean roars, loud enough that Sam tries to flinch his hands over his ears. The handcuffs and Dean's grip stop him. "You promised me you could do it and I fucking believe you, okay! So don't you dare give me shit about how I'm expecting you to die because you're fucking _not_ , you fucking _not allowed_. You promised me and I am _not_ going to let you break that promise!"

Sam sucks in a hard breath. His face is wet and his anger is gone. All that's left is a low, dull ache of horror deep in his gut, and Sam gets it. This Dean is still his Dean and things haven't really changed all that much no matter how much time has passed because Dean is completely terrified, maybe even more so than Sam. And Sam's yelling at him about something that _he_ talked Dean into, and all it's doing is scaring Dean even more because whatever else has happened – all those confusing things Sam read in the journal – this Dean is just the same as the eighteen year old he remembers from earlier that evening (from over a decade ago), double-checking Sam's gun in the car on the way to the graveyard, to another ghost hunt Sam didn't want to be on, calming his nerves with carefully interspersed jokes and reassurances, and always, _always_ , watching his back.

Sam chokes back a sob and Dean's arms gather him up like he weighs nothing and crush him against his broad chest, holding on like he can keep Sam safe through sheer force of will. Sam twists his free hand in Dean's shirt, which somehow smells exactly like _Dean_ even after all these years, and cries without giving a damn because he feels like he's already dying and he doesn't know if a promise to his brother will be enough to save him.

XXX

"You already killed a Hell hound, you know," Dean's voice rumbles, after a truly indeterminate amount of time.

The feverish feeling is back, leaving Sam shaky and weak. His face is stiff with dried tears and he probably looks as gross as he feels, with his hair sticking up in all directions and his nose all stuffed up and his eyes swollen and bloodshot, but Dean still has him tucked protectively under his arm so whatever.

"I did?" That doesn't seem real. How could he have killed a Hell hound?

"Bathed in it's blood and everything." Dean laughs a little but he sounds a long way from happy. "It was meant to be me. I told you to stay clear. Fucking _ordered_ you to stay clear. But grown up you is just as much of a stubborn bitch as little kid you."

"'m not a little kid," Sam denies automatically, even if he feels like exactly that at this moment.

"Sure you're not," Dean agrees mildly. "Speaking of, as much as it makes my life easier to be able to just pick you up and toss you in the tub when you're being a brat, I was thinking you might like to go back to being jumbo-Sam again."

"You figured out how to turn me back?" Sam asks, stunned. He'd almost forgotten what Dean had left to do. Reading about the Trials had done a lot to distract him from his current predicament.

"You don't need to sound so surprised." Dean shifts so he can reach into his shirt pocket. He pulls out something small wrapped in a bandanna and holds it out to Sam.

"What is it?" Sam asks, drawing away apprehensively. His cuffed hand is awkwardly angled and his shoulder is starting to ache. He sits up a little straighter to try to ease the strain.

"Shit. Sorry, Sammy." Dean withdraws a key from another pocket. "Guess I should take those off."

Dean sets the bundle down on the bed and unlocks the cuffs, gently inspecting the scrapes around Sam's wrist with an air of guilt. "I'm not that scary, am I?"

"I didn't know if you were you or not," Sam says, a little defensively. Trying to dislocate his thumb seems like a stupid plan now. He pulls his hand back and rubs at the abraded skin. "Being de-aged is really weird."

"You're telling me," Dean agrees. "So, I found the thing fever-brained Sammy decided to play with." He picks up the bundle again and carefully folds open the bandanna, revealing a little golden hourglass sitting in the palm of his hand. When Sam looks closely, he can just make out tiny carvings ringed around the top. Runes maybe. Definitely something old and powerful. "Apparently it belonged to a witch," Dean continues. "One of her strategies for immortality, stealing years off of people's lives to add to her own. See the sand in it? That's your missing years. It took them as soon as you picked it up."

Sam eyes the fine, white sand in the hourglass warily. Years worth of memories. Most of them bad, it seems. He wonders, if it wasn't for the Trials, would Dean be as eager to get them back for him? If Sam wasn't sick, would he be tempted to take the second chance that's being offered? Right now, Sam doesn't want to grow up. He just wants to go back to his time and have this all be a messed up nightmare. "So how do I get the years back? It burned me last time I touched it," he remembers.

Dean grimaces. "Yeah, it's kind of designed that way, so the witch could get it back and harvest the years from it. Couldn't have people taking it away with them, you know? It's a pretty simple spell when it comes down to it though. All you have to do is flip it over but it's going to hurt so you need to do it fast."

Sam nods slowly. "So I just need to flip it? It's not gonna, like, turn me into a toddler or something, is it?"

"No. Definitely not," Dean says emphatically. "I checked out all the research on it. Seems pretty straightforward. You think I'd let you touch it if I thought I'd end up changing your diapers again?"

Sam huffs a laugh, which turns into another coughing fit. Dean rubs his huge hand up and down his back but it doesn't help. A dizzying spike of panic surges up Sam's spine. It's hard to breathe and he can taste blood again. Dean pulls away, leaning over to snag one of the water bottles from the night stand and force it into Sam's hands. It takes a moment before he can catch his breath enough to take a sip but when he does he's relieved to find that it helps. The tepid water is soothing and helps wash away the nasty metallic tang in the back of his throat that's making him want to gag.

"Better?" Dean asks when Sam slumps against him, exhausted and light-headed. He takes the water bottle and sets it back on the night stand, then presses the hourglass into Sam's hands instead, carefully making sure the bandanna is still in place, protecting Sam's bare skin. "You should flip it now. The Trials are hard enough on you when you're an adult."

Dean is probably right but Sam gets the feeling that his brother doesn't usually wrap him up in hugs to make him feel better as an adult and there's a clingy, childish part of Sam that doesn't want to let Dean go.

"You're still gonna take care of me when I'm a grown up again, right?" he checks.

"Of course," Dean says, like that should be obvious. "What do you think all this is?" He gestures at the night stand. "I'm gonna be tucking you in bed and forcing you to eat and drink and take your medicine whether you want me to or not."

"Do I not want you to?" Sam asks curiously. He can't imagine trying to deal with this illness without his big brother's particular brand of comfort. He's never even gotten through a simple cold without Dean looking after him.

"No, you do," Dean says, like that's also obvious. "You just never outgrew your stubborn streak and you don't like letting me see you sick."

Sam bites his lip. He keeps his eyes on the hourglass resting in his hand. "Maybe I'm scared you won't believe I can keep my promise if you see me sick," he ventures quietly, wondering if Dean will hear what he's really saying; that he's already scared that he can't keep his promise. Who knows, maybe it's different for his older self, but right now the idea of dying, the thought of leaving Dean alone in this strange place full of empty, windowless hallways and cursed objects and who knows what else... it's so terrifying that it takes his breath away, makes him think of those long hours waiting for Dad and Dean to return from that hunt and that dead certainty that everything, absolutely everything, was lost. And it would be worse for Dean, if Sam died, because there really wouldn't be anyone coming back for him.

Dean squeezes his shoulders. "Well, you're an idiot then. I can't think of anyone I believe in more."

Sam holds the hourglass tightly, wondering whether that belief will be enough to keep him alive. He can feel heat leaching through the bandanna now. The sand at the bottom seems to pulse, like a heartbeat, like it's alive.

"Ready to grow up, Sammy?" Dean asks.

Sam allows himself one more moment of feeling safe and protected in his brother's arms. "Okay. Just... don't let me break my promise, please?"

He feels Dean's breathing stutter at the plea. Maybe it's unfair to ask but Sam's too damn scared not to. The arm around his shoulders tightens, like an involuntary reflex.

"No way," Dean says, "I told you, bitch, I'm not letting you out of this one."

"Okay," Sam says, and then he adds "Jerk" because apparently they still do that, and somehow that makes him feel better about having to grow up now.

He takes a deep breath and plucks the hourglass from the bandanna. Immediately a sharp pain sears his fingertips. Sam grits his teeth, resisting the urge to fling the burning thing away, and flips the hourglass over. The shifting sand begins to glow as it flows down to the bottom section.

Something happens.

 **The End**


End file.
